


The Old Wall

by RhysLahey



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Archaeology, Cthulhu Mythos, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Lovecraftian, Other, Short One Shot, Visigoths, archaeological site, cosmic horror, mi-go - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 19:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20120446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhysLahey/pseuds/RhysLahey
Summary: Nobody knew why that old wall stood where it was. A lonely wall, its stones covered in dried lichens while the mortar crumbles away. Its broken arches speak of a time long past, when the burnt ruins of the Roman glory were still warm, and the might of the Gothic invader was yet unchallenged. A basalt foundation slab hints towards the base of a pillar. Half-standing in the hilly no-man’s land.





	The Old Wall

**Author's Note:**

> This one I wrote a few years ago. It's a purely Lovecraftian short story which is part of my inspiration for my longer Teen Wolf fic, which if you're interested you're welcome to go and check -- but you can read this on its own!

Nobody knew why that old wall stood where it was. A lonely wall, its stones covered in dried lichens while the mortar crumbles away. Its broken arches speak of a time long past, when the burnt ruins of the Roman glory were still warm, and the might of the Gothic invader was yet unchallenged. A basalt foundation slab hints towards the base of a pillar. Half-standing in the hilly no-man’s land between a handful of villages on the Castilian highlands, it overlooks the lonely hill by a bend of the gold-carrying river, with its abandoned chapel and sombre ruins. The old wall is shunned by the locals. The Wall of the Moors they call it. And it is only visited on special days, when the local priest walks there to sprinkle holy water with an olive twig from a silver antique; in Michelmas, Childermas, Saint Guntram’s feast and Saint John’s Eve.

Archaeologists and antiquarians have argued about this derelict aqueduct in the sombre hill for various decades, suggesting here it may come from, or how was it built for greater interest of Spanish academics. They speak about the new city founded by a mighty king of the Goths, with walls and a palace, with workshops and houses. Traders from Gaul, and Africa, and Greece, and Syria came down to the new city of the Goths. The king granted privileges and charters to the inhabitants: selected members of his retinue and the Arian clergy settled with Roman traders and craftsmen. The city flourished with its walls, while baths and fountains were supplied by a brand new aqueduct, a wonder of engineering which nobody had been able to build for over two hundred years, mirroring the might of Roman builders. Historians explain how the city was burnt and abandoned after the Moors conquered the Gothic kingdom.

Local villagers never see the ruins as their own past, and they never track their ancestors back to those original settlers. They welcome the visitors, tourists, and archaeologists, but never venture with them to visit the excavations. There has always been a legendary unease around that hill, especially in the clear winter nights when the heavens are _full_ of stars. Local villagers also tell other stories about the abandoned city, tales and anecdotes of things happened around the old wall or the old city. Angels or demons coming down to the old buildings, tricking unaware people into serving them, and hissing voices of spirits coming from the plants and rocks. Of shadowy figures dragging oozy objects out of the river, and piles of glowing crystals shining in the night at the foot of the Wall of the Moors. Of hidden and cursed treasures, which thankfully archaeologists have not yet dug out.

The priest knows more. In all his years at his local parish of Saint Michael, he has had time to read the old records, to listen to the old stories, and to learn from his predecessor. To identify the hidden truth behind those layers of tale, a protective wrapping to prevent frailer minds from snapping at the implications of that knowledge. He learned about the Gothic priests and their eldritch star observations. About how Ulfilas first summoned the flying demons known as Triugumakunds, the forest people, who took him to their unknown planet. How, upon his return, he preached their word to the Goths and became their heretic Apostle and the initiator of their hidden cult. He also knew how his followers had been serving the Triugumakunds in exchange for knowledge, power, and protection for generations. About the powerful king who, with their help, had reunited his kingdom and how he had selected the spot for the new city after consulting with his Arian augurs.

That particular evening, the priest was preparing the order of service for tomorrow’s procession in the cold morning of late December. The frankincense, the candles, the cross, the silver bowl. The route of the procession had been set up over four centuries ago, when the new church was built to thank Saint Michael for protecting the village from the plague. People said that it existed already in the time of the Moors. The holy walk down to the Old Wall had to be done every three months, as it had been done for generations before. The _pater_ knew that doing it protected the village; a combination of blind faith, arcane knowledge passed down through the years, and a dread terror of what may happen if it was not done convinced him of that fact. Something was always eerie by the old wall anyway, in a manner completely alien to any other feeling he had experienced. Not even in the ruins of the old city he felt that subtle vibration of the ground, the cool haziness of the air, or the inexplicable smell. All these sensations were further exacerbated by the gut feeling of being observed by a hidden presence: a tension in the air he could not explain, but which after the exorcism always seemed to recede. As if it had been _pleased_.

Down the years the priests of the ancient town had venerated and prayed at the arches of their aqueduct. Originally with celebration and joy, sprinkling the holy water over the gold and garnet cross fixed at the pillar, marked also by its white marble decorated capital and its black basalt foundation stone. The Arian augurs had chosen that particular spot, and the king marked it with this monument embedded in his own wonder, where the water flowed constantly. After the Arians were expelled and forced to convert, and their renegade priests hunted down, their books and texts burnt, their sacred objects molten and re-fashioned, the Goths did no longer walk to the pillar of the aqueduct. No more precious objects, pottery vases, or baskets with other offerings were deposited. No more gold from the river, or strange unknown ores mined from the depths of the hills. The new king forbade all this, and had his own priests exorcise the place, banning the town dwellers from visiting the place. For this he entrusted one of his most loyal soldiers with a royal heirloom, a silver bowl of the ancient Goths, a sacred relic of his ancient people. He and his descendants were put in charge of sprinkling holy water on the spot of the pillar, to ensure the protection of the city and the land. The city grew and declined. The aqueduct cease to function. Arabs and Christians came and went, but generation after generation the guardians performed their task; first as soldiers, then as landed nobles, and ultimately as secretive chosen individuals. Never war, famine or oblivion prevented the locals from their pilgrimage to the fallen aqueduct – not even after Moors and Castilian knights pulled it down to reuse the stone blocks or the marble carvings. Faith and the weight of tradition kept them performing their ritual.

The local _pater_ is now old. His congregation ageing with him, and shrinking as the young men leave for the city to find the jobs that the timeworn countryside cannot offer. He is concerned about his parish. About his church and the small shrine at the end of the tree-lined road. About their traditions. One day, he thinks, when I am gone and the villagers are too old to walk in the processions, when the parish church is closed and our stories forgotten, who will be there to sprinkle holy water over the Old Wall? He determines to write to the bishop. Ask for a novice to come and help him. Keep the village alive. Keep the traditions going. Keep attending the processions and sprinkle water over the old ruins, _just as he was chosen_ so many years ago to this very same village, to Saint Michael’s church.

And while he sips his soup in the quiet hours of the mid-winter dusk, he turns to the cabinet where he sees the silver bowl under the statue of his protector saint. The priest smiles to himself, knowing that his job will continued by others, and that the traditions he has kept for years will be preserved. The little medieval statuette shows Saint Michael killing a demon, a copy of the larger-than-life size cult statue inside his church. Villagers do not notice it, but art historians would be shocked and uncomfortable to see the saint with such a disproportionate head, his almost fungoid hair and leathery serrated wings, slaying a demon too human to most people’s liking, with a sword like those of the Goths held in a large, clawed hand, as if a perverse inversion of traditional depictions of demons and angels. As for the ancient and battered bowl, the reminder of his duty towards the community and the processions, it still bears the images of what seem to be winged beings blessing kneeling figures piling treasure at a column. And at the base of this bowl, the priest knows, there are old scratchings, which only a handful of people can identify as not simple marks and dents. Only a few chosen ones can see that the markings hide the long-forgotten runes of the Goths. The priest knows that he is the last link in a long chain of guardians, who were entrusted by king Raikaraids himself to continue the pact his ancestors had forged many generations before him, even if the line of the Visigoths has long vanished. To preserve the rituals at the spot marked by the pillar, providing the water of life for the portal and depositing offerings for the masters of the region shunned by the villagers. To ensure that the creatures who mine and dwell the region around the ancient ruins remain unnoticed. To do this with the antique relic of the Visigothic royal family contains the runes spelling the name of the original owner, of he who had it made to commemorate his deeds and settle down his unholy pact with the Triugumakunds from beyond Neptune: 𐍅 𐌻 𐍆 𐌹 𐌻 𐌰 𐍃.

**Author's Note:**

> (Spoiler) The runes *actually* read "Ulfilas", and a Triugumakund is meant to be a mi-go. It's all actually based on the Visigothic city of Reccopolis and its aqueduct.
> 
> Comments always welcome!


End file.
